The Genocite Dagger
by a certain slant of light
Summary: By a mere slip of the tongue, Balthier Bunansa finds himself captured, whisked away by a sky pirate, and embroiled in a government conspiracy decades in the making... [BalthierOC]
1. Royal Ruse

**Author's Note:** Wow, okay, seriously? I _adore_ Final Fantasy XII to an unhealthy extent. I haven't written this much for a single fandom since... since ever! Anyway, I'd like to take this opportunity to accomplish two things: the first is to thank my readers and the second is to congratulate myself. Let me begin by saying: good God, thank you. Your reviews and favorites mean so much to me that you cannot even fathom. Thank you so very, very much for your encouragement and criticism, and I hope you enjoy this story as well as the countless others I'm bound to produce. Secondly, I'd like to just say that I cannot credit fanfiction enough. It has helped me develop as an author by leaps and bounds, and I'd especially like to note how much better I've become at characterization over the years, as well as my recent development with plotlines and original characters. Fanfiction has been and remains to be a vital step in my writing career, and cannot possibly be praised more.

Huzzah! For this is my twentieth story submitted to this site! (Actually, it's my twenty-sixth, but I'm not counting all the trash from my old account.) Pop rocks and pink champagne for everyone!

All right, enough with the gushing already! Just so you know, this story is slightly AU (I've not finished the game and for the sake of the plot, I need it to be AU), but only to a very minor extent. This story will be updated Saturdays and Thursdays!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Final Fantasy XII nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc. I do, however, own any original characters featured in this story. **This applies to all current and upcoming chapters. **

* * *

"Royal Ruse"

Balthier strode through the palace halls, occasionally ducking into alcoves and sidling through the long shadows. Dimly lit sconces lined the walls, providing generous cover for the sky pirate. Few guards dotted the various entrances and exits of the labyrinthine building, the majority of their numbers concentrated at the party currently underway. Stealing left and gaiting idly down an unguarded hallway, Balthier at last reached the door he had been seeking.

"When will they learn?" He smirked, extracting a lock pick from his pocket and making quick work of the door. It slid open without resistance, gliding silently on the well oiled hinges. Taking a last glance around the hall, Balthier sidled into the chamber and shut the door behind him.

The room was just to his liking. Antiquity upon antiquity stood proudly on innumerable shelves, with larger rarities stacked neatly against the walls. Gilded statues and busts were clustered next to bookshelves containing near ancient tomes, on top of which perched delicate bejeweled urns which he supposed contained the ashes of ancestors long since deceased. At the foot of the bookcases and simulacrums lay neat piles of gold odds and ends that would not fit on the overflowing shelves: small marble statuettes and rare golden coins were among them.

However, Balthier was especially pleased to find that everything was coated in a thick blanket of dust. "They won't miss a thing."

Deciding it was in his best interest not to rush, he began taking an inventory of the room. He counted thirty-six busts, each one of a different noble, though all were men. Of statues there were eighteen, some made of gold, others of marble, jade, or even simply limestone. There were five bookshelves, each stocked tightly with leather-bound tomes and fraying scrolls. He did not count those, for books were of little value to him. Hanging from the walls, he numerated thirteen swords and glaives, each in jewel-encrusted sheathes. In one corner was a fine mahogany table, on top of which rested chalices of various sizes and value, as well as hand-painted china sets and golden cutlery.

"What's the point if they never use any of it?" he wondered aloud, shaking his head in dismay. "What I do can be considered a civil duty in comparison." He continued on, finding three gold lions, each with emeralds for eyes and rubies for noses. Beside them were bowls of precious stones; glittering sapphires, diamonds, and pearls smiled up at him. Mentally, Balthier measured the size of his pockets and frowned. "Should have brought Fran along for this one."

Pacing the room again, he found himself at the third wall. Tapestries hung from the ceiling, falling to the floor and crumpling in a heap from their sheer length. They were finely woven and of deep, rich colors offset by gold and silver thread. Of them, he counted four. Less ornate hangings were draped and folded in a corner, along with rugs and carpets of similar value and decoration. Standing in a rack were nine staves, each majestically carved with a fine gem cresting their heads. Beside them were various other weapons: an impractical golden crossbow, a divinely decorated axe, two silver arabesque spears, and a filigreed bow.

"Fran would like this," Balthier muttered to himself, stroking his chin and sizing up the bow. He added it to his list of things to take with him when he left, and trekked on.

Beside the bow, propped up on a golden stand and displayed on a limestone pedestal was a dagger. It rested in a crimson scabbard speckled with rubies and stones darker than sapphire. The hilt, too, was encrusted with like gems, with only a single large ruby gracing the tip of the handle. Balthier found it curious, as the pedestal on which it stood was placed perfectly in the center of the wall, as if to specifically display this relic.

"Must be worth quite the pretty penny," he remarked, running his eyes along its length. Deciding to take it with him, he left it for the time being and began gathering the other items he had chosen to plunder for the night.

When Balthier had finished gathering a little pile of loot near the chamber's entrance, he was rather pleased with his selections. Stacked neatly by the door were the most expensive items of the room: one of the three gold lions, this one with a gaping open mouth that displayed thirty-two diamond teeth and a large ruby tongue; a short wooden staff with precious gems resting nicely in the wood's knots, and with an impressive pearl of near impossible girth gracing the top; two bags of emeralds, sapphires, and the like; a particularly sizable pink topaz; a set of century old coins, whose likeness on one side had been since replaced due to the long since late emperor's treachery; and the finely carved bow for Fran, along with a lightly gilded quiver. He had decided to leave the golden arrows behind, as he knew his viera partner would find them both impractical and far too flashy.

As the heat bounded off the stone walls, Balthier wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and grinned triumphantly. Preparing to leave, he recalled that he had one item left to ransack. In his traditionally vainglorious gait, he walked over to the pedestal on which the dagger proudly rested. He reached for it, prepared to pluck it from its all too pretty nest, when something stopped him. A chill crept up the length of his spine and his eyes narrowed. Something about the room had changed.

"So," a smug voice called from behind him, "this is the infamous Balthier they've all been hunting."


	2. Treasured Trickery

**Author's Note:** To those concerned about the relatively short length of the chapters: First, let me say that I am a strong believer in quantity over quality. That being said and now quite out of the way, I have been recently working on extending the length of my chapters with relative fervor. However, the fruits of my labor will most likely not be beheld within this story, as it is already mostly written and I don't believe it requires redoing all for the sake of filling in words to accomplish what's been done already. You may look forward to further effort concerning chapter length in my upcoming works. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this installment!

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"Treasured Trickery" 

Hand outstretched and reaching for the dagger, Balthier's fingers became limp and his arm fell to his side. He couldn't resist smiling as he turned, hip cocked and wondering who had caught him. Was it in an imperial? An errant party go-er? He prayed it was not another instance like the one with Vaan – he could only handle so many companions, and was quite enjoying his vacation away from the spirited youngster.

Rather than a heavily armored guard, Balthier's eyes were met with a woman. She was tall for her gender, with brunette hair that seemed to glint a bit red from the gold's refractions. Her eyes were a dull hazel, peering playfully at him through short lashes and beneath thin brows. She seemed to be about his age, he speculated, with a general prettiness that he supposed belied her intentions. Her eyes, which continued to observe him, rested above a straight nose and dry lips, framed by cheekbones that cast light shadows across her face.

"Well, you are him, are you not?" she asked, crossing her arms. Behind her he could see a bookcase standing ajar, the portion of wall it had occupied completely missing. Stairs led down into the darkness of the newly opened route, and he realized she had used the very same passageway for entrance as he had intended for exit.

Balthier smirked. "One and the same. And might I ask your name?"

"You might," she responded in her elegant Archadian accent. "But I very much doubt you'll receive an answer."

"Very well then," he said, shrugging.

"You needn't worry," she told him, and remarked beneath her breath, "though I doubt you were anyway." She continued, pacing the room a little with no deliberate haste. "You and I are kindred souls."

"Oh?" he speculated, feeling at ease, though prepared to draw his gun at a moment's notice.

"Quite right," she said, now much closer. "I've no interest in arresting you, nor in anything you've accumulated in that motley pile of plunder of yours." She gesticulated with disdain to the treasure stacked near the entrance. "I've only two interests."

"And what, pray tell, are they?" he inquired.

"I can tell you only one," she informed him airily. "My foremost interest is a secret." She paced about him, circling him with some level of intrigue until she was nearly out of his sight. He turned to see her glancing around the room, her eyes filled with apathy.

"And what might you be interested in that you can tell me?" He crossed his arms.

"You," she told him simply and turned to face him.

He scoffed, but felt little surprise. "Me?"

She nodded, grinning. "Quite the bounty on your head, Balthier Bunansa. I had assumed you were quite the crafty sky pirate. But," her tone became wistful as she gazed again at the treasure he had placed near the exit, "I can see you've not an eye for quality. Quite a disappointment."

Balthier felt like laughing. "I'm terribly sorry I do not meet your standards, my lady."

She waved a hand in the air. "Oh, don't beat yourself up over it. One day I may find it in my heart to see you as a proper villain again."

"I see." He rolled his eyes. "If that is all, then I believe I'll be on my way."

He made his way to pluck the dagger, but she intercepted him. "Not quite so, my good sir. You see, that dagger is my first interest."

"Then," he said, "as your second interest, it is my duty to retrieve your first."

"A chivalrous offer, to be sure," she remarked. "But I believe I can retrieve it of my own means. I thank you for the sentiment, though, in any case."

Balthier shook his head. "It simply would not do for a lady to sully her hands with such a dusty thing. Please, allow me."

He reached for it again, and this time she said nothing as she withdrew a dagger of her own and rested the blade against his wrist. His outstretched hand halted, and he smirked. "Really, Balthier, they said you had a way with women, but I assure you that in this case, your valiant efforts are in vain."

"You will mock me and threaten to dismember me, and still I do not get to know your name?" He lowered his hand and watched her pluck the dagger from its pedestal, dust taking flight. "You are most cruel, my lady."

"I play the cards that fate has dealt me," she told him, strapping the scabbard around her waist and patting the hilt of the dagger. She gave him a frank look. "You of all people should know that."

"I believe not in fate, rather in my own doing and undoing," he said.

"Then so too must you believe in the undoing of others," she stated.

The nameless woman approached him, closing the little distance between them. When he stood his ground and refused to move, she placed light hands on his shoulders and motioned him backwards. Balthier felt his back tap lightly against the wall, and had one hand waiting obediently over the grip of his gun. "Now, then," she whispered, her voice much darker, "to claim my second bounty."

Forcefully, she pressed her lips to his. The back of his head hit the wall, but he returned the rather abrupt kiss, hand remaining poised over his pistol. Her lips were rough against his, for they were dry and chapped and it had been quite some time since he had kissed a woman without full, rouged lips. Something about her taste was spicy and exotic, but clouded with the eerie familiarity of mead and a hint of Madhu wine.

A loud clatter sounded from behind the door, and Balthier could feel her lips tug into a grin against his. Pressing them more forcefully, his head flew back and banged against the stone wall. Pain panged through his skull and he raised his hands to grasp it, while the stranger freed his gun from its holster and flung it across the room.

"My apologies," she said, not sounding the least bit remorseful. "We shall meet again, Balthier Bunansa." As darkness clouded his eyes, he saw her slip behind the bookshelf, tugging it with her until she disappeared, and the shelf not looking the least bit displaced. In his last moments of consciousness, Balthier saw the treasury door fly open and imperials swarm its confines.


	3. Inconvenient Incarceration

**Author's Note:** Firstly, I just ate an Arby's brocoli 'n cheddar baked potato, and it was _freakin' delicious._ Secondly, I'm glad you're along for the ride and here's the third chapter! Also, keep your eyes peeled for a three-chapter long winter fic coming from me. Vague details can be found in my profile!

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"Inconvenient Incarceration"

Balthier awoke hours later in a daze. Darkness dissipating, he glanced around and found little familiarity in his prison. The stone walls and gilded glory of the treasure room were gone, and in their place lay the gleaming metal floor that blatantly told him he was on an airship. Hauling himself to his knees, he looked up to see a handful of imperial guards guarding his spacious cell.

"I don't see why they need this many of us to guard one lousy pirate," one said. His heavily accented voice dictated his Archadian heritage.

"He's not just a pirate," another replied tremulously. "He's Balthier."

"What?" came another, sounding incredulous. "Balthier Bunansa?"

"Yeah!" said the second voice. "They caught him in Lord Bryther's treasury!"

"So what?" another asked, voice thick with skepticism. It was the first guard that had spoken. "He's not the first to have breeched the treasury, and he shan't be last. Never treated any other thieves to more than one guard and a quick execution, so why're we taking him to Nalbina on a fleet ship?"

"You can't be serious," spoke the tremulous one, this time sounding flabbergasted. "Haven't you heard about him?"

"He's right," affirmed the third. "I heard he stole all the Dynast-King's treasure."

"If he did that, he wouldn't need Lord Bryther's treasure," the first reasoned.

"You don't know that!" exclaimed the second. "You don't think like a sky pirate, do you?"

"No, and I'm right glad I don't!" Balthier barely kept from laughing. Apparently, his reputation had greatly preceded him.

The third voice spoke up, sounding mystified. "I heard it wasn't only the Dynast-King's treasure, but he also stole from the treasury in Rabanastre!"

"And Archades!" piped the second.

"That's nonsense! Nothing but a bunch of fairytales and gossip! Where have you been hearing all this, then?"

The second muttered something, and the first scolded him. "The Sword and Scabbard," he said louder.

The first let loose a hearty, mocking laugh. "Right! From a bunch of drunks and peasants, that so? Reliable sources they are!"

"It's true!" protested the second voice, though it was now considerably feebler.

"Well, he may not have robbed Rabanastre or Archades, but he did have the gall to rob Lord Bryther," interjected the third.

"A lot of good that did him," the first chuckled. "He's on his way to his death in Nalbina dungeons. There's no amount of treasure what's going to save him now!"

"Now, that's just unfair," Balthier spoke up. The three guards turned and peered into the cell, shocked to see the sky pirate standing and regarding them smugly. "I believe the right amount of treasure can do anything, don't you?"

"Y-you quiet down!" said the tallest guard, who Balthier recognized to be the tremulous one.

"Careful," Balthier chided. "I bite."

"That's enough!" another fumed. He was of medium height and was the skeptical one. "You'll sit and be silent!"

"Can't I join in on your conversation?" Balthier asked in mock innocence. "It did sound so intriguing."

"Now, listen here you…" the guard's sentence was cut short as the ship lurched suddenly. All three imperials were flung down the hall, and Balthier's shoulder smashed into the corner of his cell painfully. Red light flashed lambently, accented by a sharp alarm.

A voice came over the PA. "All hands report to battle stations, the _Ixion_ is under attack."

_They took me on the _Ixion Balthier thought, picturing the relatively small carrier ship in his mind. _Well, that's embarrassing._

Kneeling and glancing up, he barely saw the imperials rush past his cell. Groaning, he heard their footsteps fade in the distance, drowned out by the ship's alarm. "Oh, don't worry about me," he called after them. "I'll be fine!"

Leaning back against the wall and steadying himself despite the constant shake of the ship, Balthier made quick work of his restraints. Within minutes the heavy metal fastenings slid off his wrists and clattered to the floor with a resounding thud that was audible even over the discordant siren.

Reaching into his pockets for his lock pick, Balthier frowned. Glancing down, he was dismayed, yet unsurprised, to find all his belongings had been taken from him. Taking a look around, he searched for anything that might aid his escape. He found nothing but his recently shed shackles, which were too large with which to pick a lock and too small with which to break down a door. "Damn," he muttered.

"Need some assistance?" a recognizable voice beckoned from the cell door. Balthier turned quickly to see the woman from the previous night standing there looking rather proud, a set of keys dangling precariously from her fingers.

"I suppose you're the valiant one now," he remarked as she went through a process of elimination, shoving one key after another into the lock until she found the right fit.

"I like to keep things interesting." A tiny _click!_ was heard and the cell door swung open, narrowly avoiding a collision with its prisoner.

Balthier strode out of his confines and gave her an inquisitive look. "You've no trouble accomplishing that, it seems."

She grinned, handing him his gun and lock pick. "You travel light, a fact for which I am grateful. Now we'd best be off, as my ship can only distract those imperial nitwits for so long."

They headed down the narrower sets of halls, the ones used by researchers and scientists rather than guards. "Your ship?"

She nodded, veering left and heading down a darkened set of stairs. "The _Quill,_ a fine threat to any imperial fleet ship."

"If she can take the _Ixion_ then why the rush?" he asked as they neared the bay.

"Even if your child could take on a cockatrice, you wouldn't let him, would you?" He grinned as they both fell into silence, skulking into the _Ixion's_ bay. They snuck surreptitiously behind a large carrier vessel, weaving through lines of smaller one-man war vehicles. Finally, they reached one close enough to the others being deployed to not appear suspicious. Slipping another key into the door's lock, it slid open and they slipped inside.

"I hope you're not a backseat pilot," she said, approaching the controls.

"Not at all," he assured. "In fact, I'm rather the front-seat kind." He slipped past her and slid into the pilot's seat, fingers flying over buttons and levers. Rolling her eyes, she took a seat beside him and told him which way to head. Within minutes they were gliding out of the _Ixion's _bay and through the myriad of attacking war vehicles.

A few hundred feet from them sat the _Quill,_ a thin, streamlined ship. Even from a distance, Balthier could tell it was slightly rusting, and appeared aged and decrepit – not at all threatening. "The perfect disguise, don't you think?" The woman's voice broke the silence.

Balthier shrugged. "Even if your child could creep by cockatrices dressed as a peasant, would you let him?"

She laughed. "If it keeps him humble."

They said nothing more as the small vehicle sped towards the airship, and further away from yet another of Balthier's daring escapes.


	4. Fantastical Fable

**Author's Lament:** I pity original characters. I really do. Do you know why? Because right from the starting gate, they have things rough. They are the destitute, orphaned minorities of the fanfiction world, and I sympathize with them. It is a sad day when you have to "learn to like" something, merely because you're conditioned to hate it. Original characters have earned a very bad name, my friends, and that name is "crap unworthy of my eyes' precious time". I pains me very, very much.

In case you happening to be wondering, that's why I'm so late in submitting this chapter. Days upon days, in fact. But two things influenced the final delayed submission: the first would be that I decided my duty to my readers was greater than my duty to my own self-doubt; the second is that I just said, "F-ck it" and Beck agreed. Enjoy.

One last order of business: this chapter is longer than the others for good reason.

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"Fantastical Fable"

Hours after Balthier's abrupt escape from the imperials' clutches, he stepped out of the shower and dressed himself. While the shell of the _Quill_ was less than stunning, the inside quite belied that truth. The room in which he stayed was lavishly yet tastefully decorated with weavings that hung from the walls. Every piece of finely varnished furniture was hand-carved mahogany, including the rather large, plush bed in which he had rested in upon their return.

"Must have taken her years to steal all this," he remarked to himself, feeling a tinge of jealousy.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Balthier strode across the carpet and unlatched the lock. A stout, portly man stood in the entrance with merry eyes, thinning hair, and a few scars running pale pinstripes down his cheeks. "The captain has invited you to dinner," he said.

"Has she?" Balthier tugged at his cuffs, feeling a grin play on his lips. "Well, I accept."

"Excellent, it is already prepared. Please follow me." Balthier did as he was implored and the two wound down narrow hallways, shoes clanking on the hollow metallic floor. He supposed that the mystery woman spent money only on the ship's cabins, for the rest was rather commonplace and even a bit destitute. Suddenly he was not the least bit envious.

Balthier was ushered into a room not much larger than the one he had been granted and thanked the man as he left. This room, too, was nicely decorated, though with much less detail. Wandering over to the small, circular table and taking a seat, he was pleased by the aroma of chicken soup and freshly baked bread. There was already a bowl set before him, with a spoon and a glass of wine near that.

Fortunately, he did not have to wait long before his newly acquired acquaintance entered the room. She took a seat opposite him and motioned to the display of food. "Please, help yourself."

Balthier was about to indulge in idle banter – perhaps to ask her name or the reason she had come to his aid – but felt the sudden pull of hunger deep within his stomach. Saving the questions for later, he instead followed her lead and began eloquently gorging himself.

* * *

After their dinner – which consisted of soup followed by roast chicken – was completed and the table cleared, the woman leaned back in her chair, resting her elbows comfortably on the arms and letting her hands dangle. "So, now that we've a good rest in our hearts and a fine meal in our stomachs, you may ask anything you like."

"A luxury for which I am most grateful," he drawled, but decided to set the sarcasm aside for the moment. "What is your name?" he asked instead.

She smiled. "I, Balthier Bunansa, am Drenne JacPride, sky pirate, privateer, and procurer of goods great and small."

"I can see that." He glanced around the room to emphasize his point. "I can also see you're rather fond of words."

She – Drenne – shrugged. "I've always had a rather particular fondness for language. And I see you're no stranger to eloquent speech yourself." She grinned. "It's for the better, as I've always fancied a man with a good vocabulary."

"I don't doubt it," he mumbled. "Why did you aid me onboard the _Ixion?"_

"Call it what it is, Balthier: I rescued you." He opened his mouth to protest, but she ignored him and continued. "I knew when I left you in that treasury that you'd be captured, and since I'd only just met you, that wouldn't have been very fun at all. Besides, had you been seen being taken to Nalbina in the _Ixion,_ I fear you might've died of shame. Can't have prisoners mocking you, can we?"

Balthier scoffed. "Then what of the dagger? I'm sure there's quite the story behind that, since it was worth striking a perfect stranger unconscious and leaving him to rot." It wasn't that he found it purposeful not to mention the kiss, more so that it seemed insignificant to him (and most likely to her) now.

"You are no stranger, and much less a perfect one." Suddenly, her grin widened and her eyes seemed to dance with trickery. "However, I had been hoping you'd ask about the dagger. As it happens, there is quite a story behind it, one I've been simply dying to tell."

"And I suppose I am the chosen audience?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'm only playing the cards," Drenne reminded him, and he rolled his eyes.

"It seems the only one you play is the joker," he muttered.

She ignored him, and a meaningful silence ensued. She spoke again, her voice darker. "The dagger you found and I claimed in Sysril is one of much silent fame. As it would seem, I believe it to be quite the notorious relic, exhumed from a tomb two hundred years past with a history that far precedes that date."

"Oh?" Balthier wondered, though barely interested.

"Quite," she continued. "As it happens, the origins of that dagger date back to years before the reign of the Dynast-King. It is said that a wandering Dalmascan scholar was on a journey, and stopped just outside of the city of Bhujerba, which was then grounded. Seeking shelter, he found himself in a cave where he discovered the first findings of the Lhusu magicite mines. Intrigued by the shimmering stones and their magical properties, he extracted a few select shards from the mines to study.

Continuing his journey and arriving in Bhujerba, he concluded his research and gave the shards to a craftsman. The craftsman had been ordered by the scholar to form the shards into a dagger, which he did without fail or hindrance. However, unfamiliar to the allure of the magicks, he was drawn in by their beauty. When the scholar returned to claim the dagger and pay the craftsman, the man stated that it had been stolen. Sensing the lie, the scholar was outraged and demanded the dagger without payment. Enraged, the craftsman withdrew the dagger and plunged it into the scholar's heart, killing him."

By this time, Balthier found himself listening slightly more attentively. Noticing this, Drenne took another purposeful pause before continuing. "The next few years passed by with little incident. Overcome with the obsession to be the only one to behold its beauty, the craftsman hoarded the dagger until the day he died. Such was his love that in his will he demanded to be buried with it at his funeral. However, having never married and thus having never borne any sons nor daughters, it was his estranged sister who saw to the preparations of his funeral. She was to be the one to lay the dagger over him at the wake, and was to behold it no sooner than that very day.

However, curiosity overcame the woman and she sought the dagger, locating it of her own means. Upon unsheathing it, she too became vexed by its power. Taking the blade and cursing her brother for hiding such a fine thing, she stole away into the night and left Bhujerba. She traveled then to Rabanastre, where she had always wished to build a home. Through the Sandsea she was accompanied by nomads who accepted her as their charge and kept her safe from the various desert beasts.

One day, not long before they would arrive in Rabanastre, she was in the desert with friends she had made from the nomad village when they were attacked by fiends. They were greatly outnumbered, and so, frightened, she took the dagger from its scabbard to defend herself. The others, entranced by the dagger, could do nothing to help her. They could merely stand and stare at the blade as the fiends attacked and killed her.

Learning of the dagger, the chief of the nomads grew frightened. Discontinuing their journey to Rabanastre, they traveled instead to the Garif village in Jahara. There, they confronted the Garif gran-elder, who too feared the blade and shunned its existence. Giving the dagger to the most strong-willed of the Garif warriors, the elected messenger traveled to the Valley of the Dead under the elder's express instruction. There he found the most sacred and ancient tomb, braving the traps and fiends within it. It was there he laid the dagger to rest in the innermost chamber and fled.

So too was it there the blade rested for years until a rather crafty thief saw to its procurement. Following the doomed suit of the others before him, he also became bewitched by it. When the leader of the thieves syndicate demanded payment for a debt he owed, the only item to the thief's name was the dagger, but still he would not surrender it. Inflamed, the syndicate's leader killed the thief, but never looked upon the dagger. Instead, it was placed within the syndicate's treasury and never beheld for another many years.

Still many decades ago, the syndicate was infiltrated by imperial spies. With their suspicions of an organization of criminals confirmed, a raid was made on the syndicate. All members were arrested, and the treasure was divided between the five lords whose military forces had aided in the raid. It was thus that the portion containing the dagger went to Sysril and became the property of the then lord. That was its final resting place." Her face, having turned somber and serious, melted into a grin. " Until now."

Once her story had ended, Balthier stroked his chin in thought. "An interesting tale, though it seems to be quite the flight of fancy."

She shrugged. "It matters not to me, the past. What is important is that there are indeed fanciful minds that will pay a pretty price for that blade, more than three of Bryther's treasuries without it."

Already, Balthier's mind was concocting manners by which to reclaim the prize. Instead, he brushed off his pants and stood, giving her a regal bow. "I have quite enjoyed the evening, Lady Drenne. I believe I shall retire for the night."

"Would you like some company?" she suggested, an eyebrow cocked coquettishly.

He smirked. "Perhaps another night."

"I'll be counting on it," she told him, rising from her chair and heading for the door. "Good night, Balthier." She stopped, turning to him. "Oh, and should the need arise for you to try something crafty to get your hands on that blade, I may only warn you that I will get my blade on your hands before the thought ever comes to fruition." She then smiled, nodded, and disappeared into the hall.

Grinning, though slightly exasperated, Balthier let the steady hum of wine dull his already tired senses as he exited the dining room and found his way to his cabin.


	5. Inequitable Encounter

**Author's Note:** I am incredibly sorry for the egregious delay on this update. The first half of the blame goes to exams, for which I had study more than ten hours a week. The second half of the blame goes to me, for just being too damn lazy to submit this (I won't lie). Now that "The Genocite Dagger" has resumed, however, you can look forward to consistent updates from now until the story's conclusion. Please forgive me, and enjoy this and upcoming chapters!

* * *

"Inequitable Encounter"

Two days passed by uneventfully, with even fewer brushes between Drenne and Balthier. On the third such morning, a rapping at his door beckoned him. Drenne did not wait before entering his chambers, grin widely spread. "Time to be off!"

"Off to where, might I ask?" Balthier leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

"If I'm not mistaken, you know the whereabouts and goings-on of King Raithwall' tomb, do you not?"

Balthier was a bit surprised but knew that in his business, secrets did not stay secrets for very long. "I suppose I've a general direction."

"Then be on your feet and stout. The _Quill_ can take us as far as the Nam-Yensa Sandsea, and from there we go forth on foot to the Valley of the Dead and the Dynast-King's tomb."

"What brought on this sudden surge of energy?" Balthier wondered, immobile.

Exasperated, she leaned against the doorframe. "If it is your wish to stay and waste away in this cabin, far be it from me to deny you the luxury. I suppose it was wrong of me to assume you'd enjoy an outing."

"Quite the contrary." He shook his head. "Pardon my asking, but when exactly is it you intend on setting me free? It seems when you rescued me from the _Ixion,_ I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire."

Drenne chuckled. "You've other places to be, have you?"

"Not particularly," he confessed. "Anywhere beyond the borders of Archadia is perfectly fine by me."

"Very well then," she conceded. "Teach me the way through King Raithwall's tomb and that shall be your repayment. You'll no longer be in my debt, and I will drop you off wherever you please."

He shrugged. "I suppose." Standing, he took his gun from the nightstand and tucked it into its holster. "Though you best be equipped - the Dynast-King's catacombs are not welcoming of visitors."

"You needn't worry about me," she assured, patting a sword resting in a hilt bound by her waist. "I've all the help I'll need."

Balthier grinned. "Then why bring me?"

"Don't be smart," she scolded, disappearing down the hall.

"It's hard not to be," he muttered.

* * *

After a few generous hours of trekking through the Nam-Yensa Sandsea and dispelling of the insistent natives, Balthier and Drenne finally approached the looming canyon walls that dictated the imminent Valley of the Dead. Wandering inside and enjoying the salvation from the sun's heat, they decided a short rest was in order. Leaning against the mammoth sides of the canyon, they basked in the large shadows set and regained their bearings. 

"Not much farther, I should think," said Drenne between sips of water. She handed the canteen to Balthier, who drank thankfully.

"An hour or so's walk from here," he affirmed, screwing the canteen lid closed and tossing it back to her. "Once we reach the tomb, it's a few hours trek to the treasury."

She chuckled. "Must be enormous. Suppose the king was compensating for something?"

Balthier rolled his eyes. "You're a coarse lady."

Wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, she smirked. "If I can be no manner of proper lady, then I shall settle for the next best thing."

He leaned off the wall and began walking. "Settling would be an understatement."

They continued through the winding canyon path, enjoying their exchange of banter as they went. The sun rose and moved over them, eliminating the shade they had enjoyed. They made constant stops to replenish themselves, both sweating heavily by the time they reached the grand edifice that marked the Dynast-King's tomb. Exhausted, they hauled themselves up the many steps and finally collapsed at the entrance, lying in the dark, damp alcove.

"I can see why you hadn't returned here earlier," Drenne managed to say.

"Remarkably," Balthier rasped, "it was much easier the first time."

Frowning, Drenne was disappointed to find her canteen empty. Crawling over to Balthier, she snagged one of his and gulped down the better half of its contents. Feeling refreshenished but still quite tired, she lay down again, resting her head on his abdomen and peering up at the entrance's ceiling.

"Comfortable?" he asked, amused.

"Inexplicably," she told him, grinning. "We'll rest for a few minutes and then be off."

"You, miss, are a slave driver." Balthier closed his eyes, feeling more fatigued than he had ever recalled feeling.

Drenne yawned despite herself. "If you insist on blaming anyone, blame that accursed sun."

"You are the one who insisted leaving early. Had we left after noon, this would not be a problem," he protested.

"You, sir, complain too much," Drenne retorted, voice heavy. Much to their chagrin, they both fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

* * *

A sharp nudge to her ribs woke Drenne with a start. Eyes snapping open, she peered through the mid-evening darkness that now enshrouded them. 

"Damn," she muttered, squinting in an effort to wash away the sleep-haze. Shapes soon formed and she realized they were surrounded by imperial guards. "Double damn."

She felt Balthier spasm beside her, no doubt prodded by the butt of an imperial's spear. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head and grimacing. Realizing their situation, his face fell. "Now this is familiar."

"Balthier Bunansa and Drenne JacPride," an imperial began, sounding haughty and formal. "You are hereby under arrest for the thievery of goods belonging to Lord Bryther Estex of Sysril. These guards will escort you to a carrier ship where you will be met by the accusing lord." He nodded to the others, who placed rough hands on Balthier's and Drenne's arms and hauled them forcefully to their feet.

"Peachy," Balthier mumbled as they were prodded down the stairs. He turned to Drenne who, to his surprise, had a look of deep concern and puzzlement on her face. "Drenne?"

She looked up, shaking her head and smiling falsely. "'Tis nothing. I am merely surprised."

"I didn't know you were capable of such an emotion," he said, and she grinned. They went the rest of the way in silence, Drenne visibly lost in her thoughts.


	6. Conspicuous Company

**Author's Note:** Before I get _another _review telling me what I already know, let me say that I am aware that the chapters of this story are short. Regretfully, I don't have time amidgst all my other projects and schoolwork to go back and revise every single chapter. Luckily it's not that long of a fanfic, and so in the future with will and time permitting, I hope to rewrite it and lengthen the chapters to 3,000 to 5,000 words each. In the meantime, please be patient with me and enjoy the story as it is. If I see another review complaining about this, I will know that you did not read the author's note, and that bothers me very, very much.

Despite all, I thank you all for your wonderful reviews and am so happy to be able to come back to a warm reception. Please enjoy!

* * *

"Conspicuous Company"

Escorted onto the sizable carrier ship (the same size as the _Ixion,_ much to Balthier's chagrin), they were finally placed in a large cell and left. A single guard stood watch near the door, but said nothing. Balthier was about to exchange him in conversation, if only to pass the time, when he heard footsteps echoing down the metallic halls. The guard bowed and fled.

Standing at the entrance of the cell was a tall man, not much older than Balthier. He had short, raven-black hair with eyes black like nethicite. He sported sharp features: a pointed nose, thin lips, and naturally fine black brows that seemed severe even set in his neutral expression. His lips tugged into a grin, revealing dazzlingly white teeth. "Good to see you again, Drenne."

Glancing up, Drenne's face fell before twisting into rage. "You're the accusing lord?"

"One and the same," said the man, his voice dark and velvety.

Drenne spat. "Accusing I can understand, but lord remains to be a title you're barely deserving of."

He chuckled. "I see absence does not make the heart grow fonder." Menacing eyes turning to Balthier, he said, "Won't you introduce me to your friend?"

"I hardly think you deserving of introductions," she responded airily.

The nameless man shook his head. "Still spurning propriety, Drenne? I see your father's done a fine job."

She laughed harshly. "Any father who chooses you for a suitor obviously does not have the best business sense when it comes to his daughter."

Ignoring her, the man turned to Balthier and offered a quick bow. "Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Lord Rinae Dimarcus of Mirane."

"You may be unfamiliar with it, Balthier," Drenne cut in, "on account of it being such a small and insignificant territory." She looked up at Rinae. "A reputation also befitting its lord."

"Oh, how you slay us with your recycled wit," Rinae drawled, growing tired of the exchange. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation when you're feeling more amiable."

"Slim chance of that happening," Drenne mumbled under her breath.

"I would then like to invite both you and," he observed Balthier with distaste, but smiled wickedly, _"friend_ to dinner, where we may partake in more cordial conversation. The guards will fetch you when it is prepared. By your leave, milady." Rinae bowed and disappeared down the hall.

"How charming," Balthier remarked sarcastically before turning to Drenne. Her brows were knitted together in a furious expression. "A past flame?"

"Hardly," Drenne hissed. "A snake of a man – though, in the eyes of my father, the perfect provider for his daughter."

"Fiancé?" He was only slightly surprised.

"I suppose you'd call it that," she said, leaning her head back against the wall. "If such a vile creature deserves a title at all."

"I take it you weren't keen on the marriage."

"To put it lightly," she said, "I'd rather be eaten alive by Urutan-Yensa."

"Do you spurn all men?" he wondered, and she laughed.

"By traditional standards, Rinae is hardly a man." She looked at Balthier, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "But if you're worried about your standing with me, you make take solace in the fact that I intend to get a second taste."

Balthier crossed his arms. "Be still, my beating heart."

Not an hour had passed when an assembly of guards escorted them through the various halls of the ship to a room made for dining. Rinae was already seated at the end, sipping a glass of deep red wine. He smiled as they each took a seat at the table, neither motioning to drink.

"Please, I'd hardly poison you," Rinae assured. "The bounty on your heads is halved if you're dead."

"What a gracious host you are," Drenne remarked, still refusing the wine.

Again, Rinae ignored her, and instead turned to Balthier. "Are you enjoying your stay on the _Pirx?_ It is my own airship, not one of the imperial fleet." He spread his arms, motioning to the spacious room. "Hence I have installed rooms for such special occasions."

Drenne saved Balthier the effort of replying. "Yes, we are quite enjoying our stay. The holding cells are incredibly comfortable, and I especially love what you've done with the steel bars. Really, you should go into interior design."

"If you'd hold your tongue for once in your life," Rinae replied, "you'd come to find that no one is interested in it for the purpose of speech."

Drenne glared. "And if you'd hold your breath for once in your life, you'd come to find that people like you much better when you aren't breathing."

Much to Balthier's surprise, Rinae chuckled. "Regardless of your idle chatter, I brought you here to tell you both something. Rather than take you directly to the Emperor, we're to make a quick stop in Mirane for the course of a few weeks' time. The _Quill_ is there as well, its crew quite comfortable in the palace dungeons."

Balthier could see Drenne's knuckles turn white, her fists clenched. "You've no right to confiscate my ship!"

Rinae rolled his eyes. "Hardly, Drenne. If you insist of depriving me of what I want, you'll only receive the same treatment."

"And what is it you want?" Balthier interjected, edging a word into the conversation.

The dark man's eyes danced merrily, yet maliciously. "You'll just have to wait and see, won't you, Balthier?"

"This dinner is over," Drenne announced, getting up from her seat.

"But you haven't even had a sip of your wine," Rinae droned.

She smiled, taking the glass in her hands. "Then I insist you have it." Without warning, she threw the glass at Rinae. It shattered against the back of his chair inches above his head, deep burgundy liquid soaking him.

Rather than curse, Rinae mumbled something beneath his breath. "I do hope you have better etiquette at the reception."

Balthier was curious as to what he meant, but instead followed Drenne's lead and was escorted from the room by guards.


	7. Intimate Inmates

**Author's Note:** I'm pretty sure that, to date, this is my favorite chapter of this story. I positively adore everything about it, from the description to the interaction. That may be a bit narcissistic, but I'm not afraid to give myself a hearty pat on the back when I think I've done well. In other news, there should actually be an actual anatomical term for the backs of someone's knees. Enjoy!

* * *

"Intimate Inmates"

Some days later, Balthier and Drenne arrived in Mirane. Though the territory itself was small, Rinae's palace was, by most standards, enormous. While being escorted through the many winding halls, Balthier lost count of the amount of bedrooms and washrooms there were. Even along the ground level, there were more than three dining rooms and at least two ballrooms. The foyer itself was a small wonder, with white marble and jade being the theme, offset by winding pillars and hanging tapestries and lined by spades of imperial guards. Balthier was, for one of the first times in his life, daunted.

Balthier was taken from Drenne and escorted to a room at the very end of the west wing, and he assumed that Drenne's was to be at the tip of the east wing. "A mite possessive, don't you think?" Balthier ventured to ask a guard, who responded by nudging him in the back with his sword's hilt. Balthier also observed that Rinae's guards were much more reserved than those of even Judge Ghis.

Practically shoved into his room, he heard it slam behind him, followed by the resounding click of at least half a dozen locks. Sighing, he took in his surroundings: the room was large and lavish without being gaudy. The only windows apparent were small slits in the wall, letting in only the tiniest slivers of mid-evening light.

Approaching them and glancing out, he saw the palace grounds and marveled at how they contrasted the rest of Mirane. While Rinae's palace and its surroundings were lush and luxurious with towering willow trees and rows upon rows of finely cultivated rose bushes, the rest of Mirane was clearly barely thriving. The climate wasn't particularly warm or cold, but the ground nonetheless was barren with only sparse protrusions of grass or greenery. The capital city was nice enough, with most of the foliage long exterminated in favor of looming metallic buildings, but the outskirts were parched and arid. In comparison, the deserts surrounding Rabanastre were like a circling oasis.

"Hardly a benevolent ruler," Balthier muttered. His head jerked up when he heard the door groan open and a slight figure slip through.

"One hour," an imperial barked, shutting the door forcefully. Drenne leered into the finely carved mahogany for a moment, glaring daggers through the wood. She then turned to Balthier and smiled.

"I dare say your room is bigger than mine," she mused.

"And what a sin that would be," he said, humoring her.

She heaved a sigh, falling back onto his bed and staring at the ceiling. Even the ceiling was expertly decorated, with painted depictions of Gods and humes on it. She found the religious theme rather boring. "I suppose I shan't be seeing you much after this."

"Really?" he ventured, sarcastic. "But Rinae seems to adore having you in the company of other men."

She propped her head up on the palm of her hand, grinning. "Oh, yes. He simply loves to share."

Balthier rolled his eyes, taking a seat on a plush chair near a writing desk. "I'm positively torn. I can't decide whether to steal half the things in this room, or burn them just to get a rise out of him."

Drenne chuckled. "I'd recommend neither. You'd never make it out of this palace alive." With that remark, the mood became somber. Drenne spoke again, her tone wistful, "What happened to your partner?"

Balthier's eyebrows rose curiously. "Hm?"

She lay back, arms behind her head. "You don't pirate alone, I'm positive. So why, then, were you in Sysril unaccompanied?"

He shrugged. "After the theatrics between Archadia and Dalmasca, she preferred to stay in Rabanastre for a short vacation. If you ask me, staying on land for any longer than required is no manner of vacation."

She didn't seem to hear the last part. "You travel with a woman? A paramour, perhaps?"

This time, it was Balthier's turn to laugh. "Hardly. We're partners in pirating and nothing more. Why?" he asked, his tone one of great entertainment. "Be you jealous?"

"Oh, insatiably," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "Still, I'd like to know these things. That way I may send her my condolences for when she learns you've been whisked away by a mysterious and," she paused, sitting up and looking at him sinfully, "incredibly beautiful woman."

"Have I?" he wondered, looking about. "Where is she?"

"Oh, aren't you a clever one?" said Drenne, grinning.

"No, really," Balthier continued. "I should like to meet her."

Silkily, Drenne rose from the bed and walked towards him, making a particular display of swinging her hips just so. "Then meet her you shall," she whispered, before silencing his retort with a kiss. She leaned into the chair, knees on either side of his, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She felt him grin against her lips as his hands snaked around her waist and tugged at the hem of her shirt.

Balthier, without breaking contact, rose from the chair with her legs wrapped around his waist. Stumbling towards the bed, they both fell in a tangle of arms and legs when the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Drenne's hands wandered down his chest and around, fingers seeking the laces that kept his vest together. Balthier's lips traveled from her mouth to the nape of her neck, hungrily and expertly. Smirking, Drenne released a moan.

Finally having grown impatient, she growled and snapped the lacing of his vest. Balthier looked up. "Well, thank you for that."

"Anytime," she purred, weaving a hand through his hair and pulling him into another passionate kiss. Drenne reached a hand around to pull off his vest when a rapping sounded at the door.

"Time to go!" a richly accented voice called.

Drenne sighed in exasperation. "You must be joking!" she called back, still in a rather comprising position beneath Balthier. "It's not even been an hour!" As a response, both Drenne and Balthier heard the first of the locks come undone. "Damn," she muttered. Balthier stood and straightened his vest before extending a hand and helping her to her feet.

"Most inopportune," he said, his lips cocked in the slightest hint of a smile.

She nudged him. "By some twist of fate, you're constantly avoiding my advances." Her lips settled in a fake pout. "I'm beginning to think you don't like me."

"Wherever would you get that notion?"

Halting their conversation, the door flung open. Drenne's arms fell limp at her sides as the guards came to escort her out. "Now, really," she said to them, "you interrupted our deep and meaningful conversation about the existence of religion and afterlife."

Balthier chuckled but was silenced by the echoing sound of the door as it closed, followed by the clicks of multiple locks imprisoning him once again. Suddenly he felt as if the rest of his stay would not be so eventful, or enjoyable.


	8. Suspicious Spouse

**Author's Note:** Sorry to inform you all, but this is the last update for the next week or so. During Spring Break I'm going to be on a remote island where the height of electricity is basically a table lamp. Ah, the joys of camp. Sorry about this, but it will resume normally the Wednsday after next! Thank you, and Happy White Day!

* * *

"Suspicious Spouse"

Weeks passed in Rinae's palace with little change – save for the sanctioned solitude the two sky pirates now found themselves in. It had been nearly a fortnight since Drenne's last encounter with Balthier, and she wondered how he was faring. She, herself, could say little to say of her condition. She had been fed well and provided with clothes, though she ate only when she needed to and changed only when her current garb was sullied and reeked with sweat – something she did solely to anger Rinae.

She harbored a deep concern in the pit of her stomach, which had been proved right the other night when Rinae had summoned her to dinner to make an announcement. She, of course, had eaten nothing. When he had finished dining and wiped his lips, he gave her an unnerving look and told her the news she had been dreading: for the past few weeks he had been preparing a wedding ceremony. She could hardly fathom when he planned to hold it, but noting the number of people bustling through the halls the past few days, she had to assume soon.

It was thus that Drenne reached the end of her rope. When the seamstress came into her room that afternoon to take her measurements, Drenne frightened her off by waving a chair around haphazardly. When the woman left, Drenne was pleased – in her hand, she held the bobby pins meant to keep her hair up. Instead, she intended to use them to pick the locks of her chamber.

Having done so, Drenne presently snuck down the halls with practiced stealth. They were devoid of guards for the past few nights, she knew, for they were all being briefed (at every waking hour, it seemed) on security preparations for the ceremony. Ducking behind pillars and into alcoves, she furtively made her way to the west wing. Stealing a cautious glance around, she made quick work of the thirteen locks barring the entrance to Balthier's chamber.

Sidling in and quietly shutting the door behind her, Drenne peered into the darkness. Stumbling to the nightstand, she took a match from the drawer and lit the lamp, illuminating the larger portion of the room. She saw Balthier lying flat in his bed, eyes closed and sickly pale.

"Balthier?" she asked, nudging him awake.

His lids drifted open lethargically, lips splitting into a slight grin at the sight of her. The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating his rather enunciated cheekbones. "Well, if it isn't the bride herself."

"You know?" she asked, and then reprimanded herself. Instead, she replaced the question with another. "You look ghastly. What have they been feeding you?"

Heaving himself up, he leaned back against the headboard. "Little to nothing."

Again, Drenne scolded herself. "I should have brought you something. Damn me!"

Balthier shook his head. "You couldn't have known." He changed the subject, his eyes weary. "So, you're to become Lady Dimarcus, I hear."

Drenne's features contorted into disgust. "Not if I've a say in the matter. I'll sooner die than become the wife of that misogynistic pig."

"With all due respect," Balthier reasoned, "I'd rather he die than you."

She grinned. "Oh, so you do like me?"

He shrugged. "Only a little."

"So," she wondered, "the question now is how I go about dispatching of Lord Dimarcus."

At that, Balthier grinned. "As it happens, the days leading up to your ceremony must be quite arduous, as the guards in the last week have been lax and loose-lipped."

"Oh?" she asked, interest perking.

He nodded. "They've been hovering outside my door, speaking of some fabled dagger the good lord has stowed away in the treasury."

Drenne smiled. "Is that so?"

"Quite," he affirmed, mirroring her contentment. "They've also said that of all the many renovations he's made to the palace since receiving his title, he hasn't made any to the lower levels." He waved a hand airily. "You know, those unimportant things like dungeons, storage rooms, treasuries."

"Now, that's a shame," she mused. "A rusty lock can undo an entire empire."

"Quite a shame indeed." He frowned suddenly. "However, I'm also to understand that he's withdrawn the dagger recently, apparently for some sort of presentation."

Drenne's face fell, but her resolve was steady. "No matter. I'd be no manner of sky pirate if I couldn't find it wherever it had gone."

"Quite true," he said, again dipping his head in affirmation.

She looked him over again. His roguish eyes belied his condition: his face was thin, his lips dry and cracked, and his hands were very near trembling. She leaned forward, placing a light kiss on his unresponsive lips. "When we get out of here…"

He shook his head. "Think only of the present. Leave the future for when it comes."

She nodded and was about to say more when firelight flooded the room. Head whipping around, she saw none other than Rinae standing in the glow of the open door, sheathed dagger in hand and beaming victoriously. "Ah, how did I know you'd be in here?"

Drenne glowered and stood. "My guess would be luck, since you've no manner of intelligence."

Rinae chuckled and gave a curt nod, issuing four guards into the room. Two took hold of Drenne while another pair seized Balthier, and led them from the chamber.

"Twenty gil says that this is the presentation," Balthier grumbled, nearly stumbling but managing to regain his traditional gait. Meanwhile, Drenne's only hope was that Rinae would be short-winded for once so she could thieve some food from the palace kitchens.


	9. Heady History

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the late update. I was away all week at camp, working eighteen hour days. It was all menial labor, but the food was delicious and I made many friends. Onto chapter nine!

* * *

"Heady History"

They were brought to the library, yet another of Rinae's lavishly decorated chambers that served little purpose and even less company. The ceiling reached gargantuan heights, with dusty tomes clamored and stuffed into the towering shelves. The carpet was lush and intricately woven, which made Drenne want to spit on it more than admire it.

They were escorted to the center and allowed to sit in very plush leather chairs. The notion of comfort was rather ironic, considering their accompaniment of imperial guards stationed at either side of the recliners.

Rinae cleared his throat, pacing languorously around the reading table before stopping. A sense of purposeful pride seemed to ooze from him, and Balthier felt as if he could choke on the mere arrogant air the man secreted. A wicked grin split Rinae's lips open and he began, "Well, let's not dance around formalities, shall we? I'm sure you've each heard the tale of this dagger, have you not?"

When neither Balthier nor Drenne said a word, a quick smack to the head by an imperial brought them about their manners. "Yes, death and wickedness and beauty and all that fabled nonsense," Drenne said, shooting a glare at the guard that had hit her. "It's a very pretty tale that I don't quite believe, but I'm sure you're intellectually stunted enough to be vexed by it, Rinae."

Rinae chuckled. "Hardly, my dear." He became silent then, his voice purposeful but eyes still doing a bewitching tango. "So, I'm to assume you've heard the iteration where the scholar is the first to be slaughtered?"

"How many iterations are there?" asked Balthier sarcastically. "Do you intend to keep us here for story time, mother?"

"Actually, yes," he admitted, placing the dagger on the table. Balthier could hear the guards' armor clink reflexively, a sound that told him to think twice before lunging for it. He glanced over at Drenne and supposed she'd drawn the same conclusion, though he could see her fingers itching for the blade as they clasped the leather until it nearly tore.

Rinae broke the silence, arms gesturing emphatically. "You see, in complete truth, the scholar was not killed by the craftsman. In fact, he was so intrigued by his reaction to it that he allowed him to keep the dagger and left Bhujerba. For the scholar had expected such a reaction and had, in actuality, carved out four sets of shards, only one of which originated from the Lhusu mines. The others he acquired from undisclosed resources and gave to three other craftsman, whom he paid and received the shards from in turn."

"That's terribly interesting," Drenne drawled, completely bored. "Do you intend to dull us to death?"

"One more quip of your tongue," Rinae warned, his tone sharp, "and you'll see it lying on this table."

Drenne glowered but said nothing, and Rinae assumed his airy tone. "The rest of the story from the craftsman's death to the raid on the Sylver Syndicate is true, however."

"Sylver Sindicate?" Balthier wondered, only remembering bits and pieces of the tale Drenne had woven that night at dinner.

"The company of thieves that last had this dagger in their possession," the lord explained as if Balthier should have known. "As for the other three shards, the scholar kept them and studied them his life over. Upon his death, he presented them to his son and told him that they were stones of great power. For you see, the shards he carved actually came to be known as the Dawn Shard, the Dusk Shard, and the Midlight Shard. And his son, you may ask?" Rinae snickered again, happy to bestow the knowledge. "The Dynast-King himself."

"Oh, please," Drenne said, slicing the air of seriousness that had befallen them. "The original story was ridiculous enough, but you expect us to believe this farfetched flight of fancy? You might as well be recounting a nursery rhyme to Archadia's Emperor!"

She was about to continue but was silenced as Rinae crossed the room with unexpected quickness, his hand flying across her face. Recoiling from the slap, Drenne seethed and motioned to rise from her chair when the guards grabbed hold of her shoulders and held her down firmly.

"The tale is not done yet, dearest," he said, his voice dripping with venomous intent. "Another interruption and I'll slit your paramour's throat."

Drenne's eyes wandered to Balthier, who, despite his serious eyes, looked skeletal in the bright light of the library. She leered at Rinae but fell silent.

The lord resumed his post in the center of the small semi-circle and continued, "You see, while the dagger's beauty is said to vex all, there is but only one who can wield its true power. That is why the scholar left the dagger with the craftsmen, for even though its beauty would provide a deadly lesson to those selfish enough to steal it, it could do little harm to others.

You see, the dagger's true power of destruction can only be wielded by those descended of the blood of the man who carved it. That is to say the scholar himself, King Raithwall and all those who are his blood kin. The blade, in fact, is formally known as the Genocite Dagger, and is in truth incredibly concentrated nethicite."

At the last word, Balthier barely resisted grimacing. He had so hoped to be rid of the ghastly substance forever.

"Then why would you want it?" Drenne asked, trying very hard to keep her speech eloquent and formal when acid laced her voice. "If only descendents of the Dynast-King can wield it, then Queen Ashe is its rightful owner."

Rinae's lips again curled into a malicious grin, the widest she had ever seen hims sport. "Because I am his descendent as well."

Drenne's eyes narrowed. "That's blasphemously impossible, Rinae."

Rinae shook his head and sighed. "Not so, my love. As it happens, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and her brothers were not the only children of her country's former ruler. In truth, he bore another before them: a son. However, it could not be known, for he was not the child of the queen."

"A mistress?" Balthier asked.

The lord nodded, and his voice was dark. "The damn woman who gave birth to me was of little worth and lesser title. Raminas could not have his people knowing about an affair, so he had to cease relations with mother and child. She fled to Archadia and built a life here instead, where she married the then lord of Mirane."

"What happened to her?" Drenne wondered, for she had never heard Rinae speak of his mother to anyone.

"After the lord died, she stood in the way of my title." He grinned again, a sight both Balthier and Drenne were physically sick of seeing. "She fell ill. Healers suspected poisoning, but nothing could be proven."

Drenne's eyes flew wide. "You killed your own mother?"

Rinae shrugged. "As I said, no proof could be found. Her death was a tragic affair, quickly superseded by my acceptance of my duties as ruler of Mirane. Unfortunate, but what's done is done."

Balthier felt ill out of pure disgust – something that had not happened in quite some time. If he had disliked Rinae Dimarcus before, he was utterly repulsed by him now. "No manner of man kills the woman who gave birth to him."

Rinae rolled his eyes. "Again, you should not spout allegations when there is no evidence to support them. May we move on?"

He did not wait for an answer before continuing, glancing wistfully at the dagger resting on the table. "Alas, there is a bittersweet irony in the tale. I can never wield the dagger in battle, for if even a drop of royal blood should touch the blade, then it shall fade into nothingness. I can only use it from afar, willing others to do the menial work in my stead." He smiled. "Most unfortunate."

"What do you intend to do with it?" Drenne managed to hiss between clenched teeth.

Rinae approached her, gliding smooth fingers down her jaw and grazing her lips. "I intend to overthrow the emperor of Archadia."

"That's madness!" she protested, shaking off his touch. "You cannot hope to defy his Majesty and live!"

"You always were very simple, Drenne," droned Rinae. "You underestimate the power of the Genocite Dagger."

"No," she spat, "I underestimate your power, and rightly so for there is so little of it to speak of!"

A crack rang crisply through the air, the sound of Rinae's palm fluttering violently across Drenne's cheek. "When you are my wife you will learn there are harsher punishments for not biting your tongue!"

"I would sooner die than be your wife!" she said.

Rinae withdrew his sword, pressing the resplendent blade against Balthier's neck. "Would he?"

"I appreciate the offer," Balthier said, voice smooth and calm despite his current predicament, "but I'm afraid I've only an eye for women."

Rinae's eyes glowered and he pressed the steel until a drop of blood trickled down Balthier's neck, disappearing behind the fabric of his shirt. "Hold your tongue or lose it."

"Enough!" Drenne said and stood, though her arms were soon seized by imperial hands. "Lower your sword."

"A tempting offer," Rinae droned, "but not so tempting as the sight of his head rolling across the floor."

Another drop of blood dripped slowly down Balthier's skin as Drenne interrupted, "What do you want?"

He looked at her, grinning wildly. "I want you to let the seamstress take your measurements so that you may be prepared for our wedding in three days' time."

"Three days?" she asked with constrained panic.

Rinae nodded. "Do that and I'll let him live. In fact, he can even watch the ceremony."

Balthier glared as Drenne sighed. Having little choice in the matter, she conceded. "Very well."

Rinae smirked and lowered his blade, and Balthier was once again overtaken by a pair of guards. He was escorted from the room, while Drenne was forced to stay.

Her makeshift fiancé strapped the dagger around his waist and looked at her with little remorse. "I'm sad to say that I shan't be seeing you very much in the days preceding the wedding. So I leave you now and eagerly await the delightful sight of you in a wedding gown." He bent and kissed her hand, though it was clasped in a fist. He motioned to the imperials and they each took hold of her arms, leading her out.

"And I eagerly await the delightful sight of you in a casket," she muttered under her breath.


	10. Vengeful Vows

**Author's Note:** I actually hated this chapter when I wrote it, but now I don't think I could possibly love it more. And you know what this means: we've finally reached the big one-zero! About four chapters are left, and then the exciting conclusion! In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I do!

* * *

"Vengeful Vows"

Three days passed by all too quickly, in which Drenne spent her idle hours conjuring escape plans. Dozens rose to her mind, thought out to the most minute detail and vanquished near their completion. Quartets of guards stalked the halls now, with at least seven guarding her door at any given time. She knew that on the day of their wedding there would be twice the number of imperials to the number of guests.

"You look lovely," doted the seamstress, admonishing a few final tucks and fluffs to Drenne's dress. It was an elegant affair, dotted with the finest diamonds and pearls, and decked tastefully in lace. No doubt Rinae wanted everyone to know just how wealthy he was about to become.

"I'd be more comfortable in a potato sack," she grumbled, adjusting the bodice at her breasts and barely able to breathe.

The small woman chuckled, running hands over the silk and smoothing out any wrinkles or folds. "My, but you must be so excited."

"Words can't express," Drenne drawled, growing increasingly more annoyed by the woman's withered hands nitpicking about her body.

The seamstress's light fingers traveled up to her hair, fixing errant strands. It had been arranged into a bun, severe but elegant, that Drenne absolutely loathed. She had to admit that she felt somewhat naked when she couldn't feel her hair on her shoulders.

Finally the woman clapped her hands in approval, giving Drenne a last once over and smiling. "Such a lovely bride," she gushed. "Lord Rinae certainly is a lucky man, my dear."

With a roll of her eyes, Drenne stepped unceremoniously off the podium. "Bouquet," she said curtly, too irate to be mindful.

Glaring disapprovingly at Drenne's poor manners, the woman handed her a batch of lilies, irises, and some other flower she didn't recognize. "Are you ready? I know it seems stressful, but today will be the most wonderful day of your life."

Drenne raised her eyebrows skeptically. "You're wrong."

"Oh?" inquired the woman, curious. "Then what will be?"

Glancing morosely at her reflection, Drenne sighed. "The funeral."

* * *

The pompous sound of an organ cascaded over the rows of people, accompanied by harps, lutes and panpipes. The traditional wedding march played as Drenne walked out, sickened to her stomach by the cliché tune. What disgusted her more, however, was the wedding itself. 

Rinae elected for their matrimony to take place in the most lavish, luxurious church he could possibly find. Luckily, Mirane's largest was in its capital city. The building was enormous, with a ceiling that loomed at least one hundred and fifty feet above Drenne's head. Sconces lined the alcoves, and greatly carved marble pillars stretched from the floor like ancient trees. Tapestries and paintings hung from the walls, accompanied by pristine stained glass depictions of deities made famous my psalms. An impossibly long aisle stretched between the dozens of crystal white benches, and at the very end rested a pedestal where the appointed Kiltias stood.

Ignoring the guests in the pews and the handfuls of guards lining the walls, Drenne's eyes ran over the people at the altar. Standing victoriously in the center was Rinae, grin widely spread and wearing only the finest armor gil could buy. Strapped around his waist was the cursed dagger, gleaming brilliantly. Around him stood dozens of imperials, hands slack at their sides. The hilts of their swords jutted out, while others sported un-drawn bows and arrows. Despite half of them looking at her, she noticed the others were all staring at someone rather different.

Standing in the place reserved for the best man was Balthier. He looked much less gaunt that when she had last seen him, and even managed to force a smile when her eyes met his own. Even though his garb was less elegant than Rinae's, she had to admit that he looked infinitely more handsome. She also noted that he wore no armor, and knew it was to make him easier to kill if she tried to escape. It was quite apparent that Rinae was taking no chances, since the heaviest concentration of guards surrounded Balthier.

A deep dread settling in the pit of her stomach, Drenne regretfully approached the altar. Stepping up in her shoes (heeled, much to her discomfort and chagrin), she obediently met the eyes of Rinae. Despite forcing a smile for appearance's sake, her gaze oozed an engulfing hatred.

"Dearly beloved," began that Kiltias, "we gather here in the grace of the Father to join these two children in the bonds of sacred matrimony."

Though the elderly man droned on, Drenne found herself completely unable to listen. Her knuckles were white, clutching her bouquet so tightly that her nails dug into the stems, dew dripping down her fingers and onto her dress. Incapable to even peek at Rinae for fear of lunging at him, she stole glances at Balthier. In spite of their situation, he regarded her warmly, some intense sympathy and hope communicated between the both of them.

"Now, may we bask in the glow of this holy ceremony and recite the vows," the Kiltias continued, giving a short nod to Rinae.

"Drenne JacPride," came Rinae's voice, secreting an unfamiliar warmth. Reluctantly her eyes met his, looking more through them than at them. "For many years, you have scorned my love. For many years I have begged and pleaded for your approval, meeting only your contempt. But as I stand here, in the eyes of this gathering and of my dear friends, I am finally accepted into your graces."

She listened to him go on, spouting lies with such conviction that even the Kiltias had to wipe his eyes. Again, she looked to Balthier, and for only a moment glanced past him at the guards. She heard the resounding clink of steel, and momentarily wondered why they suddenly grew so restless.

"It is in the wake of Lord Mirane's beautiful vow of love," continued the Kiltias, drawing Drenne's attention forcefully, "the we stand here to unite these two in the bond most eternal."

Silence descended upon the church, accompanied by a grave weight weighing down on Drenne's heart. Suddenly, the reality of the situation came full force. On every side they were surrounded by soldiers and weaponry, not to mention the insistent eyes of one hundred hopeful guests. Glancing back, Balthier's smile finally faded, and for one of the first times in her life, Drenne felt her eyes sting with tears.

The Kiltias turned to Rinae. "Lord Rinae Dimarcus, do you take this woman in holy matrimony? Do you promise to do unto her with the most affection, devotion and protection your heart can conjure? Do you swear upon the eyes of these holy relics, and this congregation, to have and hold her in times of sickness and health, of poverty and wealth, of happiness and sorrow? Do you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife, and promise her a lifetime of joy and protection?"

Rinae looked at her with eyes to intense that she didn't dare glance away. "I do," he said, his words echoing through her mind with such impact that her knees quaked.

"Lady Drenne JacPride," the Kiltias said, motioning to her. She returned his glance with a lump in her throat, blinking to fight back tears, "do you take this man in holy matrimony? Do you promise to do unto him the most affection, devotion and adoration your heart can conjure? Do you swear upon the eyes of these holy relics, and this congregation, to have and hold him in times of sickness and health, of poverty of wealth, of happiness and sorrow? Do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband, and promise him a lifetime of joy and devotion?"

Drenne's mouth suddenly became dry as her eyes traveled from the Kiltias to Rinae. His, masked by warmth, urged her venomously to agree. She opened her mouth a moment but found no words, and looked to Balthier for aid. His eyes bore into hers, so intent and serious that her mind scrambled for escape. Again, the clink of steel rang in her ears, grating on her senses. She glanced at the people in the pews and then at the guards. They all stood ramrod straight, though there was one difference: their hands were poised over their swords, and the ones waiting in the upper levels all had their bows drawn and arrows aimed – at Balthier.

Only then did the realization dawn upon her. These people on the benches were too familiar for comfort. They weren't friends of Rinae's. They weren't lords and ladies. They were all servants, cooks or otherwise minions – each and every one of them. As she was unable to even croak, she realized with such suddenness that the moment she agreed to marry him, arrows would fly into Balthier. The image of him lying dead at her feet, blood seeping into her wedding dress, a sword speared through his neck, made her gag.

"My lady?" insisted the Kiltias, whom she now knew to be a paid underling of Rinae.

She looked up, struggling to find her composure and to appear inconspicuous. "I…"

"Yes?" insisted Rinae, voice toxic.

Drenne forced a smile, casting Balthier a meaningful glance and, with the greatest stealth she could muster, motioned to the pew.

"Rinae," she began, oozing sincerity into her voice. "All my life I had known I would be with you in a church."

"Drenne?" he asked venomously.

"Please," she begged the Kiltias, "I haven't said my vows."

The Kiltias smiled and nodded, despite Rinae's visual protests.

"All my life, I have secretly awaited the day when I would stand amongst the pews and look at your serene face," she continued and laughed lightly. "Of course, this wasn't quite how I'd imagined it."

"Really?" he asked, teeth gritted.

Drenne nodded, watching Balthier out of the corner of her eye. "Yes, but before I tell you, might I have one more kiss?"

"We aren't wed yet," he insisted, hands balled into fists.

Drenne smiled serenely. "Please, until now I've lived my life without your love. Allow me to kiss you one more time, so that when I kiss you as your wife I may be all the more grateful."

Rinae was about to protest when the Kiltias cut in, infinitely pleased. "Of course, my dear! Such an act of devotion in the eyes of the Father I have never seen!"

She granted the elderly man a soft nod and moved forward. With one hand she trailed delicate fingertips over Rinae's jaw, pulling his head down gently. Tipping herself up on her heels, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Feeling the slight flutter of his eyes closing, she whispered into his lips, "In my fantasy, I picture myself in black, not white, and you are lying dead on the altar."

In one quick motion, she had a hand around his neck while her other clamored for the dagger at his waist. Casting a glance to the side, she saw Balthier dive for the pew. As the sound of arrows whizzing and swords sliding out of their sheathes resounded in the huge cathedral, Drenne wrapped her fingers around the dagger. Within moments her vision grew red as she plunged it into Rinae's heart, before falling to the floor with three arrows embedded in her back. The last thing she saw was Rinae's body hit the cold stone, the dagger melting inside him as sunlight flooded the church.


End file.
